


On the Importance of a Daily Planner

by Urist



Series: Medieval Management AU [1]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Adora needs sleep, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Blood and Violence, Catra needs sleep, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, Lesbian Disaster Adora (She-Ra), Lesbian Disaster Catra (She-Ra), Let! Adora! Go! Batshit!, Light Angst, Princess Catra (She-Ra), Shadow Weaver needs to die, Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)'s A+ Parenting, Violence, gratuitous feats of strength, in which Adora saves the cat, ish, probably too seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urist/pseuds/Urist
Summary: Catra is pretty sure Adora’s to-do list for today is absurd, even by her usual energetic standards.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Series: Medieval Management AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064114
Comments: 25
Kudos: 261





	On the Importance of a Daily Planner

**Author's Note:**

> This is, technically, in the same universe and time period as [Limitations of the Post Office](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26785255). In no way, shape, or form does you need to read it to understand this. It is a fun 700 word ditty however - if you like this and want a peek in how Adora's week went directly before this, feel free to take a look at it after!
> 
> As always, thanks to [ForsythiaRising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForsythiaRising) for beta-reading, story help, and general support. If there's a part you enjoyed, they probably played a role. All and any remaining errors are my own.

Catra’s sleeping somewhat poorly these days. Frankly, “poorly” is an understatement, and “these days” is beginning to number in the dozens, but who’s counting? Certainly not her. It’s not like it’s been forty seven days. Not like it’s been forty seven days since she was last able to check her dropoff for a letter. Not like it’s been forty seven days since Regent Weaver declared her a threat to her own nation, forty seven days since she forbid Catra from leaving the keep, forty seven days since she placed that awful magic collar on her neck. It’s not like it’s been forty seven days since Catra was able to go into town, head down the alleyway behind the butcher, check for a longhand letter written in terrible chickenscratch, without magically getting shocked and alerting Weaver.

Her one saving grace, her only light here, is that she knew ahead of time. Not by much, but by enough. Enough to write one last letter and drop it off, enough to give a heads up. A brief one, but still.

* * *

_Hey,_

_I think this might be my last one for a while. Weaver’s decided I need to be restrained. For my own good or until I’m married, apparently. She managed to find some magic collar that can actually enforce it. I got her to agree to wait until my birthday, and I’m trying to get a way to fight back, but… well, you might not get many more replies. Might be a bit of a goodbye._

_Catra_

* * *

So, yes, Catra’s not sleeping well. She wakes and paces around the walls of the keep until she’s dead on her feet, then tosses and turns. She’s waiting, tense, coiled, like a clock-spring wound too tight and never allowed to chime.

She’s started to lose her schedule, a bit, if she’s actually being honest. Which is why she finds herself awake, somehow full of both nervous energy and bone-deep exhaustion, in this pre-dawn hour. It’s not a bad time, as far as times go. But she’s never exactly been a morning person and the majesty of the sunrise, just starting to break over the woods east of the Fright Zone, is frankly a little lost on her.

What isn’t lost on her is the motion of the guards below. She’s not _disallowed_ from being on this specific roof, but it’s one of only a few left to her, and she’d hate to get spotted – these things almost always lead to Weaver finding out, which almost always leads to mortar in handholds, moved barrels, and missing gutters. So, she keeps an eye on them, always trying to see how they rotate and patrol, and as the sun nears the horizon, her tiredness and anxiety slowly conspire to make them the sole focus of her attention.

It’s not surprising, then, that she doesn’t spot the visitor until they’ve arrived at the gate. First off, who shows up to a keep at the crack of dawn? Second off, who comes at dawn from the east, towards the back gate? Third off, who rides in to the back gate at dawn, in full plate with a drawn sword, on a hard-ridden horse? It would be ridiculous for Catra to expect this. It _is_ ridiculous for it to have even happened. It is _especially_ ridiculous how, once the wind shifts slightly and Catra catches an unexpected scent, her focus is utterly ripped away from the guards and onto this figure.

Catra’s mental list of priorities goes through a quick changeup, apparently without consulting the rest of her. She thought she was trying to stay hidden and avoid making noise, but her body apparently believes her sole goal in life is “make a beeline towards this person, skittering across every goddamn tile on this roof in the process, before narrowly catching the gutter with a claw” – which means that she is abruptly trying to balance, quietly, on the edge of a roof, while frantically watching every guard in the keep realize there is the slightest possibility they might have to actually do their jobs today. If she wasn’t trying to stealthily regain her perch whilst half her brain screams at her to leap towards the armored figure, she might find some joy in their panicked expressions.

The figure, for what it is worth, seems utterly unperturbed to see a number of guards crowding the battlements. The blade doesn’t lower and the helm doesn’t raise, but Catra hears a faint voice. She can’t pick out the words, at this distance, but the effect is nothing short of magnificent – the guards back away, hide behind the stonework, start openly bickering among themselves, all pretense of defending the keep gone. An unlucky one descends to open the gate, with a hesitant posture and pose Catra’s seen only previously displayed at Regent Weaver on her worst days. The wind shifts again, and while Catra loses the voice (and the scent), she apparently regains enough brainpower to balance fully and then make out actual details.

It’s immediately clear that the armored figure isn’t exactly shining. Catra can see dark stains, and the plate itself seems closer to tumbled than polished. She can also see an energy in their stance – this person has clearly ridden long to get here, but while the horse looks totally ready to sleep, the rider seems to have just gotten started. One armored gauntlet lifts the helm, and Catra can see blonde hair falling out, matted and clumped. The wind shifts back, stronger, and suddenly –

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_My name is Catra. I’m six. I’m have to send you letters, to make me good at writing._

_Have you lost a tooth yet? I just got my first fang._

_Catra_

* * *

Forty seven days of confinement have obviously made Catra slightly loopy. She can feel her ears and limbs and tail curving forward, seeking to get as close as she can to what is obviously _not_ Adora, not here, not possible. It’s been almost fifteen years since they started exchanging letters, nearly half a decade since she’s seen her in person, just under four years since Regent Weaver, concerned Catra might be getting rebellious enough to discuss how she was raised, forbid her from sending any more messages, and exactly forty seven days since Catra’s had the chance. There is no reason, none at all, that _Adora_ would be here, now.

And there is _absolutely_ no reason for her to show up looking like that. Adora’s always been the bigger of the two of them, and she’d been training since childhood to earn her place in Bright Moon. But there’s no way she’d filled out that much. The figure in front of her wears her armor like a second layer of skin, and is holding a longsword at her side without the slightest look of wear. She’s broader and taller than most of the guards facing her down, and carries herself casually, despite the numbers opposing her. Catra can pick up the scent of day old blood – not Adora’s, there’s no way she would be upright if the amount of blood she’s smelling was all hers, Adora’s fine. Adora’s fine. Adora _has to be fine_ – and confusing layers of smoke and salt, but underneath all of that, Catra can smell (and see) that, apparently, her lifelong – penpal? confidant? friend? – _Adora_ has arrived. Here. In the Fright Zone. Somehow.

Her examination must have taken more time than she thought, because she suddenly realizes that the guards have fully escorted Adora into the keep. Some are slowly filtering inside the hall, likely to rouse Weaver. Others have taken her horse towards the stables. Still more have returned to their posts. Adora’s alone in the rear courtyard. Catra feels her claws tearing tiles and stone and earth as she scurries down the tower and sprints towards her.

Coming closer, it’s clear that Adora is, bluntly, a wreck. Her eyes are bright, the same blue that Catra always dreams about, but they have a manic energy, almost flickering back and forth, like a bonfire rages behind them. Her hair is… theoretically salvageable, but Catra’s betting she’ll have to get out the good soap for it. Plus, she’s pretty sure she sees a stick tangled up in there. The dark stains on her armor resolve to be about equal parts mud and blood, and there’s an overwhelmingly sharp scent of exertion, sweat, and heat flooding off of her as Catra approaches.

“Hey, Adora.”

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_~~It was~~ ~~I really enjoyed~~ ~~Do you want to be~~ Meeting you in person didn’t totally suck. _

_Catra_

* * *

“Catra! Just the person I wanted to see!” Her voice is off, as well. Catra’s always read her letters in a low and soft tone, the voice Adora has in the mornings, had the morning when Catra woke her early to say goodbye for the last time. This is not that. This Adora is wide awake, strung so tight that her voice is sharp and tense, fueled by so much energy that Catra cannot help but jerk up at the sound.

“Well, this is unexpected, princess. What brings you here?” she drawls back, testing to see if her slowness makes Adora relax. To her surprise, Adora stiffens.

“Wait, you don’t… Catra, Regent Weaver reached out. She’s… Catra, I’m to be your wife.”

Catra’s no stranger to blows to the head – she’s always enjoyed training, even if the guards and Regent Weaver both insisted on only full contact sessions – but she’s never been as abruptly driven from consciousness as this moment. Her body is still upright, and for the time being appears to be functional, but her mind has quietly departed. She manages a shellshocked “Okay,” tenuously straining for any familiar conversational ground, before it rapidly becomes clear that all her pretenses of control over this interaction are gone.

“So, let’s get engaged,” – engaged, there’s that idea again – “Angella said there’s some noble’s ceremony, but I think I’ve got it” – ceremony, what ceremony, is it a wake, because Catra’s sure she’s not going to recover from this – “down to half an hour, and then we can kill this bitch once and for all.”

Oh, good, murder. Catra’s on better ground with murder. She’s had a plan or six for how to kill “this bitch,” Regent Weaver, for years now, and she’s been constantly refining them, knowing that Weaver was always on the lookout. Actually, she’d almost be offended by the implication that killing Regent Weaver is somehow the secondary task on any given day, but the sun hasn’t technically risen yet and Adora’s apparently got both an engagement and a murder penciled in for today in her daily planner, so maybe Catra can give her a bit of a pass. Not too much of one, though.

"Hey, Adora, this is kinda... sudden? Like I think I need a bit more - "

"Oh! Shit, sorry! Yeah that's totally fair, I mean who wouldn't want one beforehand, I had it... somewhere...” – the sight of Adora patting herself down, searching pockets with quick, efficient motions, is apparently pumping fire directly into Catra’s body – “fuck,” – Adora should not be allowed to use that word in public, Catra’s blush must be visible in Mystacor by now – “I think I lost the ring when the ship caught fire."

"- informati... wait, fire? Ship? _Ring_?!"

Catra catches herself, then carefully walls each piece of new information into different parts of her brain. Fire, explains the smoke smell, great. No answer needed there, her outburst might have been unnecessary – not that she’d admit that, of course. Ship, that’s where the salt came from, excellent. Not sure why she felt the need to vocalize a question there, but she’s sure she had _a_ reason. Ring. Ring is a tricky one. Certainly feels like a justified point to raise. She might need a better answer from Adora to really make sure that’s fitting in where it should.

"Oh well, we'll just have to make one, do you have a least favorite dagger? I'll just bend it into one real quick."

Setting aside the extraordinarily attractive implication that Adora can apparently bend metal barehanded now, Catra’s starting to catch up to this whole ring thing. Adora wants to marry her. Marriages require engagements. Therefore, her childhood friend has shown up to hold an engagement ceremony. However, there’s no way to have a ceremony without a wedding ring, and her lovely idiot has lost it. So, Adora needs to get a ring, or at least the material to construct one. Which appears to be -

"W – wait, why my least favorite?"

"Oh, because you'll need your favorite for killing Regent Weaver, obviously."

Ah. Yes, it is now clear that forty seven days of lockdown and isolation and missing Adora have taken their toll. Catra is certainly hallucinating. She might have thought this figure was Adora, but the Adora she remembers – her Adora, of forty seven days ago (and of fifteen years before that) – well, she would have used this manic energy to at least _try_ to be restrained. Presentable. Proper. Her Adora would have, at a minimum, sent a letter first, before just arriving at her keep. She probably would have cleaned, polished, and then re-polished her armor. And forget having a stick tangled in matted hair – her Adora would not have tolerated anything less than her usual perfect ponytail, idiotic poof included. But, even if Catra puts those superficial concerns aside, her Adora would have _never_ casually discussed marrying Catra and then sticking her favorite dagger into Regent Weaver. It’s clear that something about this Adora is fundamentally _not okay._

But. Catra is strongly tempted to just say fuck it – forty seven days of attempting to play by the rules has resulted in nothing more than rashes around her neck and bone-deep weariness. Why shouldn’t she lean into this version of Adora? Sure, something has clearly happened to the Adora she grew up with, and whatever it was, it’s left her totally unfettered. But, this Adora seems monomaniacally focused on marrying her and murdering her evil, controlling, possibly abusive authority figure. Catra’s not really against either of those things, and she’s pretty sure her Adora is still there, just slightly twisted right now from whatever ordeal brought her here. If she’s honest, being married to Adora, free and clear of rules and Regent Weaver, is… well, if it’s not beyond her wildest dreams, it’s pretty close to reaching them. So, she reaches down into her left boot and pulls out a small silver stiletto, passing it over with a quiet “watch it, princess. Point’s sharp.”

Adora takes it, looks at it, winks at her, and then Catra’s brain breaks again. She’s not even sure what causes it – could be the sight of Adora snapping off the handle and bending the blade into a ring like it’s a paperclip, the feeling of Adora running her fingers along Catra’s (“I have to size it, please just _stop moving_ ”), or the warmth of the tears running down her face when Adora drops to one knee and presents the ring to her – but she’s not really experiencing the world as much as navigating a series of still life paintings right now. In one, she’s hearing Adora ask her to be her wife. In another, she’s nodding, openmouthed, as Adora slides the ring on. In a third, she’s being lifted into the brightening sky, Adora’s arms around her, her mouth approaching, and Catra –

She loses herself as she dives down to meet Adora’s lips. 

She slams back into reality once she pauses for breath. Suddenly, her finger is aching with an iron weight, her heart is pounding, her lungs are shaky, and she’s looking at Adora’s eyes. Her pupils are pinpoints in a sea of blue, locked on something distant. Catra’s already speaking as she turns to see what’s – The grand hall. Weaver –

“Adora, I – _fuck._ Weaver – Fuck, Adora, it has to be official – ”

Adora’s planner apparently already had that step, crammed between “give Catra the surprise of her life” and “stage a minor coup,” because she replies, full of nervous energy, almost too quickly.

“I know! I know. Don’t worry. I’ve already thought of that. All you have to do is look very upset and shocked for the next half an hour or so.”

“Oh, yeah, shock’s going be a real challenge. But – we just – Kind of hard for me to be that upset right now, Adora!”

“Uh. Oh no. I thought you had that down. Shit! Just – think of something, Catra! I only made this happen with the condition that I become the Queen – ” 

The rest of Adora’s frantic statement is cut off as static floods her ears. Suddenly, Catra’s pretty sure she can pull off upset.

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_Weaver reminded me last week that I’m to become the Queen, someday, if I can prove to her that I’m worthy of it. I tried acting like we talked about for a few days. She didn’t get worse, but this is pointless. You’re a dork for even suggesting it. Thanks for trying._

_Catra_

* * *

Of course this Adora comes with a catch. Of course it’s impossible to expect that her friend, who once again has no right being this attractive, would show up, brimming with energy and life, to _unconditionally_ be with her. No, no, she’s not free and clear of rules, not by a long shot. Catra should have realized this sooner. She should have known it from the kiss. She’d kissed Adora, and Adora barely seemed to react. No, not that – she’d kissed her, and the next words out of Adora’s mouth were a plan to get Weaver on board with the engagement. Her kiss isn’t what matters, not to this Adora. The engagement matters. Adora’s not marrying her to kiss her, she’s marrying her to _become the Queen_. Catra’s not stupid and this isn’t some children’s story. She understands how this works.

So now she’s got a decision to make – Adora or Weaver. Neither of them seems content with _her_ being in charge, of course, so the question is which is worse. Catra knows the choice should be easy. Weaver’s an abusive, violent, terrible bitch of a regent. Giving her power only ever makes Catra, and Catra’s whole nation, worse off. Adora, on the other hand, is usually the living personification of justice, nobility, and strength, even if her current hygienic status is somewhat offensive. Making her queen via marriage would make the nation much better off – there’s no doubt in Catra’s mind that Adora is certainly a more kindhearted leader than Weaver.

But, being with Adora will be worse for _Catra_. Sure, she’ll probably suffer less, the guards might be reined in, and somehow she doubts that Adora will take personal delight in calling her useless or a disgrace or a stain on the family, but Catra will have to struggle through a sham marriage to her friend. She’ll have to wake up next to Queen Adora every day. Sit down for meals with her. Listen to her in meetings. She’ll have to appear in public with her, play the part of a happy and contented Princess, devoted to Queen Adora. She’ll have to struggle through every day, every overruled decision, every time anyone utters the words “Queen Adora.” Each will be a reminder that Adora didn’t marry her for who she is. That Adora doesn’t want her.

She snaps back into reality at the feeling of a warm hand sliding into hers. Adora’s eyes, bright blue, are locked onto Catra’s, and she feels a tug.

“Hey, that’s a great upset face. Let’s go - just keep it up!”

Catra’s pulled into the grand hall just in time to see Regent Weaver descending the main steps. Adora’s hand is hot and her voice proud as she addresses Weaver. The conversation washes over Catra – something about an offer, lost replies, the unavoidable difficulties of travel – but she’s jerked back in slightly when Adora shouts “and she said yes!”, while hoisting her hand into the air to show the ring. _Technically,_ Catra would like to interject, _I was too busy kissing you to say the actual word yes_ , but her ability to speak has almost totally failed her at this point.

She know there is only this short time to think – her body, possessed by etiquette lessons long past, has begun the motions of the engagement ceremony, and it only takes so many steps. From an abstract point of view, it’s clear what’s happening. She’s trying to process something so immense that she can’t be bothered to think about her interactions with the rest of the world. Normally, she’d throw herself onto a roof or rafter to work through the issue in (relative) peace and solitude, but this time she’s tied down, with a hand locked by a freezing cold ring of iron, held in a grip that’s gone from blazing to scorching. Her vision is beginning to tunnel, her hearing is suffused with a rising roar, and she’s losing feeling in every part of her body, except for that traitorous hand. Ancient memories guide her limbs to the final configuration as the questions pound through her: _Adora or Weaver? Adora or Weaver? Good of the nation or the good of me? Good of the nation or_ –

There’s a squeeze. Her ears pop up, the static lessening just in time to hear “wife-to-be”, in Regent Weaver’s sharp tone. She categorizes it as polite anger (held back because they are not alone), and Catra can already feel the punishment coming the next time she’s – another squeeze, and Catra looks over to see Adora’s shining blue eyes, with a hint of wetness gathering at the edges – wetness, why is _Adora_ crying, Adora’s getting everything she wants here, she’s getting the nation and the power and the throne and whatever else Catra will give her, and she’s so surprised and lost that she lets a small noise slip out, prompting Weaver to grind out another statement between clenched teeth:

“Princess Catra. I ask _again_. Do you accept Lady Adora as your wife-to-be?”

Catra hesitates, and then the bitch has the audacity to go from angry to smug, satisfied, like she’s proud of making Catra miserable at the idea of being married to Adora, and suddenly Catra’s had enough. Fuck her – if she wants to make Catra pick between Weaver and Adora, she’ll do it.

“Of course I do. For the good of the nation, princess. It’s not like I like you.”

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_I’m coming back to Bright Moon next season. You should take me to that tournament you were talking about – I wanna see how many coats of arms I can pick out. I’ll even watch your stupid joust. As long as you split a turkey leg with me afterwards. It’s not like I like you._

_Catra_

* * *

Things move pretty quickly after that. Regent Weaver is clearly excited by Adora’s presence and willingness to stay, and Adora apparently said the right phrases back at her, because Catra’s next fully aware moment is in her bedroom, the ever-present weight of Weaver’s magical collar finally lifted. Adora’s unsheathed sword is resting against the wall, and she’s halfway out of her armor, her gauntlets off, reaching out a hand towards Catra, repeating something.

“Hey! Sorry - could you help me out here, for a second? I think one of the clasps got bent, and I can’t reach it.”

Oh. Undressing Adora. Her Queen, soon. She’ll probably have to help with that from now on.

“Sure.”

It’s no wonder Adora couldn’t get it open – she’s clearly taken a blow on the side of her breastplate recently, and the entire section is slightly dented and warped. It takes Catra a minute of focus to unlock it, but when she does, the gambeson underneath is stiff with dried blood.

“ _Adora._ ”

“What? Oh, that. No, it’s okay! I’m okay.”

“How – oh, yeah, blood everywhere, you’re totally fine – how did this even happen?”

“Hey, in my defense, not much of it is actually my blood. It’s mostly from the bandits – don’t worry, I left them all alive! And I got it most of it off the armor.”

“Bandits – Adora, what the everloving _fuck –_ ” Catra opens the armor more, only to see the stain spread across all of Adora’s torso. She throws her hands up, away from the tapestry of blood filling her vison, and stalks towards the corner of the room with a huff.

Intellectually, Catra knows Adora’s a better fighter than her, so she’s not totally ruling out the idea that Adora fought a group of bandits on the way here. But that doesn’t really explain _why_ Adora fought a group of bandits on the way here. When she takes a second to push through the fog of exhaustion and stress clouding her head and really think – actually, there’s a lot that isn’t explained. Like, why only Adora showed up. Or why she showed up without taking the time to be presentable. Or -

“Catra? I’m sorry, I hate to interrupt whatever thought process you’re going through, but I… I sort of left my luggage behind. Can I borrow one of your undershirts?”

Or why Adora is now standing in her bedroom, clothed in only a breastband and greaves, with a bloody shirt in one hand and questioning concern in her eyes.

Catra knows she’s fucked up a lot, but even she doesn’t deserve this punishment. Adora in armor cut an imposing, attractive figure. Adora out of it is… Exposed skin, drawn tight over decades of training. Shoulders and arms, light scars guiding eyes to visible strength. Core and chest, muscles shifting with each breath. Catra can’t stop frantically looking, and she has to actively fight the need to launch herself at Adora. (Either to fight or fuck, or maybe both? It’s unclear, and barely matters. They’d all get her closer to Adora.)

Really, seeing Adora like this is just unfair to Catra. She’s barely slept, she just agreed to a wildly mismatched marriage with her favorite person, Adora’s running around her bedroom half naked and making everything smell both good and wrong, and she didn’t even have breakfast yet. She’s not sure how much more of today she can take. But, somehow, she manages to tear her gaze away from the lines of her soon-to-be-Queen’s abs and grind out a quick “Undershirt. Sure. Coming _right_ up.” before sprinting into her closet to find one of her larger sleep tunics. She grabs one and throws it out of the open door, then closes it and sinks down behind it, head between her knees.

“Uh – Okay – thanks, Catra!”

“No worries.”

“You… you, uh, you alright, in there? Want me to join you?”

“I’m _fine_ , Adora, you don’t – ” This is her queen, soon. “I’m good.”

Catra is not, in fact, good. She’s about as far from good as she can get without actually spilling tears all over the floorboards. Adora’s hearing is absolute shit, but she’s still trying to be totally silent, to feel all this before she goes back out there to face her stunning, amazing, incredible fiancée. Back to face the woman who will be her Queen. Back to face her eternal reminder that Adora doesn’t want her – not like Catra wants her.

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_Weaver says I can’t send letters anymore. Obviously, fuck that. I’m still going to talk to you. I’ve snuck this one out, just send your replies to the return address. I’ll check it often. It’s the butcher whose kid we taught to read, she’s promised she won’t tell Weaver._

_~~Miss you~~ _

_Catra_

* * *

She’s pretty sure she miserably failed to keep quiet, but she pulls herself together, eventually. Upon opening the closet door, she finds her betrothed fully unarmored and on the bed, trying to scrape a stubborn spot of blood off a gauntlet. She halts, one foot still in the doorway, considering her view.

At first, it’s not a pleasant one. Catra’s earlier frantic glances failed to pick up the bruises, pinches, and scrapes littered across her skin, or the several seeping stains already visible through the new shirt. Her head is bowed and her shoulders are bent under the load of sleepless nights and restless days. The manic inferno that drove her this morning is guttering, unleashing long-repressed weariness. Catra’s nose stings, suffused with stale adrenaline.

As the pause lengthens, though, the view becomes a familiar one: Adora. Sitting on a bed, dressed in a shirt and a pair of shorts. Working, quietly. For the first time today, Catra looks at her and sees past memories, from eight, from twelve, from sixteen. All still ring true. A wall of tangled and matted hair hides her expression. Catra knows it anyways. Her tongue is sticking out of her lips. Her nose is slightly crinkled. Her eyes are tight, focused on the task at hand.

She could almost let herself get used to this. She could almost watch this moment slip by, the first in a long series of quiet passings that would occupy her married days. Instead, she walks closer, steps deliberate and loud – but still, Adora does not look up, not until her tail brushes over the armor and taps the hand holding it.

“Oh – …hey, Catra.”

“Hey, Adora. Let’s talk.”

Adora’s eyes drop from hers, and Catra can see a hint of tears. She sniffles, nods, then pats the space next to her. Catra settles down, close enough to drink in the warmth radiating off her, not quite touching. Safer that way. She turns towards Adora to – she’s tensed. There’s a warding hand raised. Catra swallows her words. Adora opens her mouth, utters only a breathless choke. Catra’s startled as her hand finds its way to rest on Adora’s thigh, but Adora’s hand drops and their fingers interlace. Adora breathes again, deeper, and pushes through, voice cracking before sliding into a low and mournful tone. 

“I – I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. I didn’t ask you for this, and I should have. I’ll fix it, I promise. I don’t – we don’t – we can figure out another way to make you queen, and – and then I’ll leave.”

 _Another way to make **you** queen_ _–_ Adora shifts, moving to stand, but Catra’s hand lifts from her thigh and slams into her stomach. It’s warm, firm, with clear planes of defined – _focus, Catra._ In a low growl, she rasps out “Don’t move, Adora. I will fill your underwear drawer with hairballs. Again. Stay.” Adora keeps leaning forward, but Catra slides her claws out slightly to prick her skin, and she stays.

Catra is an idiot. Granted, not as dumb as her beautiful, possibly selfless, definitely oblivious wife (to be). But apparently, neither one of them is really all there today. She’s going to have to take this very slowly.

“You’re not leaving. Not unless I tell you to. Got it?”

“O – okay.”

“Now. Adora. Dear betrothed. Darling fiancée. Light of my life. I’ve got three questions.”

“Awww - ”

“Not. An Invitation. To coo.”

“Aw.”

“First question. Why did you ask to marry me?”

“Uh. I wanted to? I’ve wanted to marry you since… well, probably the last time I saw you.”

Catra feels her gut warm, but only slightly.

“Second question. And I know you can’t lie. Don’t try. What did you mean when you said ‘with the condition that I become the Queen’?”

“I… wait, _what?!_ Wait, after we kissed – Catra, I was trying to explain why you needed to act upset, not that I’d… No, Catra, Weaver told me that I could only marry you if I took being Queen away from you, and I love you, so I – Catra, I know you should be queen! Not me!”

 _Oh._ What started as a small, comfortable warmth in her chest has formed into a roaring furnace. Adora loves her. That’s what that feeling is. It’s growing, displacing her doubt, forcing her confusion to spill out of her, in a halted “I love you, too, but – Adora. You – you got offered to be Queen. Why would you want me?”

“Because I – Wait, shit, no, I planned this out, hang on a second!” Adora moves a searching hand to her own waist, pats for a pouch no longer there, stops, then looks down at Catra’s claws, still resting on skin through her shirt. “Can… can I move? I need to get something quickly. I promise it’s for a good reason, and I’ll come right back.”

She slowly drops her hand back into her lap as Adora pads over to the pile of her things. She hurriedly shifts armor aside, finally extricating a small satchel. Catra is struck dumb as Adora pulls out four actual, honest to god, color coordinated spiral-bound pocket notebooks, tosses all but one aside, and flips frantically through it while coming back to the bed, before landing on a page as she sits again -

“Aha! Found the list. First off, you’ll be the one to kill Weaver, so you should get the throne. Second off, if I’m Queen I won’t have time to train. I’ll lose my jousts, Catra. Third off, you were literally raised to inherit this, and would be so much better at it that I ever could be. And finally, Regent Weaver thought you couldn’t.”

She finds herself looking up at Adora’s eyes, still the brilliant blue, though heavy with tears not quite spilled. And then down, slightly, at her lips. Her tail whips up to counterbalance as she launches off the bed and slams into Adora, tackling her to the mattress in a heavy kiss. By the time she lifts her mouth off, Adora’s skin is hot and flushed underneath her, her lower lip is bruised where an errant fang caught, and her pupils are blown out, slightly unfocused. Catra slides a hand up to her clavicles, claws resting against the heat of her neck, as she drawls, “I cannot believe that you kept every stupid notebook, but lost our fucking wedding ring, you idiot. But – since you asked so nicely, I’ll do you the favor of being queen. Once that bitch is gone. Now. Third question, Adora.”

“…Oh. Uhm. Yes. That.” 

Catra’s voice drops into a rasp as she growls, “ _Were you serious about planning to kill Regent Weaver tonight?_ ”

“Of course, Ca - ” Catra’s diving back onto Adora’s mouth before she can finish.

* * *

_Hey, Adora,_

_Aww, you miss me. How embarrassing for you._

_Weaver’s got me planning out the crop allocations for the next year. Let me know if you ever want to hear way too much about irrigation. Hope training is going well for you._

_Thanks for the cream suggestion. It’s really helping the bruises. Let me know if you know of something for burns as well. The cook was trying to teach me and things went slightly wrong._

_Miss you too._

_Catra_

* * *

Catra’s beginning to understand how Adora was more worried about the engagement than killing Regent Weaver. Turns out, it’s a lot easier to plan a murder when there’s an entire other nation willing to condone the murderers. While it’s not entirely clear if Adora is actually _supposed_ to be here, she made it sound like Angella and Bright Moon would back her to the hilt. Especially with the engagement formerly on the books. Plus, once Adora figures out that Catra’s letters were describing her childhood under Weaver and her guards in about the most positive light possible, it’s obvious that she’s not letting a little thing like plausible deniability stand in her way.

It didn’t quite prepare her for the impressive lack of subtlety that Adora is currently displaying, though. Catra knows she’s impulsive, but – if their positions were swapped, she’s pretty sure she would not show up to dinner in Weaver’s throne room wearing full plate and carrying a drawn sword. She’s very sure that she would not stop playing with her food midway through the second course, apologize to each guard present, tell them they have one chance to leave, and then stand in front of the sole door. And she’s absolutely positive that she would not toss her fiancée a wink before setting into the remaining loyalists.

Catra’s not exactly complaining, however. Adora made it very clear that Catra’s only job in her plan was taking care of Regent Weaver, and she’s done that admirably. Really, she probably should have dragged it out a bit more, but she wanted to watch Adora fight, and, well, Catra’s a bit impulsive. It’s gotten her this far.

She’s idly wiping her claws off on the tablecloth, trying not to get more blood on the crown before she picks it up (there’s already enough blood in her hair, she will _absolutely_ need to break out the good soap tonight, for both of their sakes), when the first guard goes down, cleaved from shoulder to stomach on a beautiful strike that she can’t help but admire. Catra’s adjusting how the crown sits on her ear and eating a third of the meat off Weaver’s plate – she always got the best cuts – when Adora shoulder checks the second guard, shattering a window as she launches him through it. She’s refilling a glass of wine from the decanter while Adora tussles with the last three, but is forced to set it on the table next to her when one of the loyalists decides that the unarmored magicat lounging on the throne might be an easier target. Catra’s casual underhand toss sinks her favorite dagger into his throat, however, and she finds herself nestling into her newly earned seat without issue. She’s got an excellent view of Adora venting days of sleepless stress and worry onto the last pair of guards, and nothing to do but sip her wine in peace. Well. Mostly in peace.

Catra wipes the blood off her feet and kicks them up on the arm of the throne, before calling out to her betrothed, “It might have slipped your notice, but your intended Queen just had to kill one of the guards by herself. _Great_ job planning this coup.”

“Catra, you are literally sitting on the throne. Why are you complaining?” Adora shouts, parrying a guard’s wild attack before pushing him back on the defensive.

Catra’s nothing if not a polite fiancée, so she sets her glass back down and waits for Adora to finish her one handed slice through his neck before replying, “Do I need a reason to – wait, no – _really, Adora?_ That’s my fucking fireplace!”

The last guard winds up for a strike at Adora, but she takes his hit on the shoulder and shrugs it off to smirk at Catra, “Sorry, didn’t think I _needed a reason_!” before grabbing and headbutting the assailant in question.

He drops hard, shaking the table. Adora kneels over him, sword falling, as Catra drawls back, “Oh, look, there goes my wine. It’s a good thing you’re the pretty one.”

“Aw, you think I’m the pretty one? How embarrassing for you.” She pulls her sword from his chest, standing with a broad grin and moving directly in front of Catra’s throne.

“Of course I do, Princess, why do you think I married you? It’s not like I like you. Now, get over here and kiss me.”

Adora’s daily planner still has one item left, but Catra insists on dinner first. She plops herself onto Adora’s lap, snarling whenever Adora tries to stand (“I’ll clean up later, just _stop moving!”_ ) and sneaking bites off her plate. Between Catra eating most of Adora’s meal and Adora eating most of everyone else’s, they quickly polish off the remaining food, and soon enough it's time. Adora leaves to get suitable witnesses, while Catra sacrifices her least favorite tapestries to soak up the mess. She’s relaxing on the throne as Adora returns, guests in tow. They wordlessly kneel at the macabre view – Catra ran out of tapestries well before the room ran out of blood – but her betrothed approaches her.

Adora lifts the cockeyed crown off of her head, presses a kiss to her mouth, and centers it back down. Queen Catra’s first declaration is setting a date for the royal wedding.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to [ForsythiaRising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForsythiaRising). If you made this far, you'll probably find their works as appealing, but better conceived, structured, and written. Go take a look. 
> 
> Fun asides/facts/things that are true but did not make it into the fic: 
> 
> “plops herself onto her lap” is an understatement. Really, Catra was purring in Adora's lap while telling her how good of a fighter she was, hand feeding her bits of the meal, and kissing her. All selflessly done, solely so Adora would stop moving enough to eat, of course. 
> 
> Though it doesn’t come up much, Catra was an astonishingly well-educated child, on subjects ranging from military history to agriculture – Adora was right when she said she’s been trained since birth to be Queen. Adora’s no mental slouch either, but much more of her education was focused on physical activity. 
> 
> Catra actually ends up hiring that butcher’s kid as one of her royal employees later. Adora arranged the interview, and buys meat from them every month as a thanks for keeping their letters a secret. 
> 
> Catra eventually replaces the window Adora broke with a stained glass scene of Adora cutting down the loyalist guards, because “it intimidates visitors”. Adora notes, but never says aloud, that Catra a) unveiled it on their anniversary, and b) moved her throne so that it sat in her eyeline. 
> 
> Catra has started no less than three diplomatic disputes with the princess of Bright Moon over comments on her wedding ring. Adora tried to give her multiple other gold and diamond-based options after each fracas, and Catra has refused all of them.
> 
> Most of [Adora’s letters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26785255) arrive over the span of the next few months. Catra eventually gets them set into a gilded polyptych and puts it in the throne room.
> 
> Pretty much everyone in the keep, the town, and the surrounding countryside all agree that Catra is a much better leader than Weaver. There’s literally no pushback when she announces it – mostly a bunch of “well, it was going to happen soon enough, might as well have been this year and not the next. Plus, she brought a new princess in!”
> 
> Catra went on a diplomatic trip without Adora exactly one time. She came back a day early to find Adora had planned a massive multi-day mock battle between the guards as a training exercise, essentially turning the keep into a warzone. Catra snuck through all her own guards and into her own chambers, kicked Adora out of bed, and told her to have it cleaned up by the morning. Adora brought her breakfast in bed the next day as an apology. Catra made the intraguard battle a yearly tradition, and heckles Adora from the balcony while eating breakfast.
> 
> Adora has at least four different notebooks on or near her at all times – “personal thoughts” (blue), “princess thoughts” (green), “battle strategies” (orange), and “daily planner” (black). The reasons Catra should be Queen started in “personal thoughts”, but she copied it into “princess thoughts” halfway through writing it. Catra has a drunk habit of reading aloud excerpts of the “battle strategies” notebook and citing, from memory, historical examples where the strategy in question didn’t work. She also sneakily adds “eat food” and “kiss your wife” into the daily planner whenever Adora looks too stressed. 
> 
> Queen Catra’s second official declaration was to schedule a tournament. Adora anonymously entered as a knight named She-Ra, and won every joust. EDIT: Now written about [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28175697).


End file.
